UC-NRLF 


an 


THE    POET    AND    HIS    MASTER, 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER 


AND   OTHER  POEMS, 


BY 

RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  NEW  DAY." 


NEW-YORK: 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS. 
1878. 


Copyright,  1878,  by 
RICHARD  WATSON   GILDER. 


Press  of 
FRANCIS  HART  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 

Page. 
ODE. 

"  I  am  the  Spirit  of  the  Morning  Sea " 9 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  SUMMER 14 

A  MIDSUMMER  SONG 16 

"  ON  THE  WILD  ROSE  TREE  " 18 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  AUTUMN 19 

THE  POET'S  PROTEST 21 

WANTED,  A  THEME 22 

"  A  WORD  SAID  IN  THE  DARK  " 23 

THE  SONNET 24 

LONGFELLOW'S  "  BOOK  OF  SONNETS  " 25 

ESSIPOFF 26 

TO  MODJESKA 27 

THE  DRAMA 28 

DECORATION   DAY 31 

"  THE  EVENING  STAR  " 33 

MORNING  AND  NIGHT 34 


M191940 


6  CONTENTS. 

Page. 
A   WOMAN'S  THOUGHT 35 

"  REFORM  " 37 

FOR  AN  ALBUM 39 

COST 41 

THE  HOMESTEAD ...  .42 

THE  WHITE  AND  THE  RED  ROSE .44 

KEATS 47 

"  CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD  " 48 

A  THOUGHT 49 

CRADLE  SONG 50 

"  BEYOND  THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  PINE" 51 

LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

I.     "Now  who  can  take  from  us  what  we  have  known  ".52 
II.     "We  know  not  where  they  tarry  who  have  died".  .53 

"  BACK  FROM  THE  DARKNESS  TO  THE  LIGHT  AGAIN  "  54 

"  WHEN  LOVE  DAWNED  " 55 

THE  POET'S  FAME 56 

THE  POET  AND  His  MASTER 63 


ODE. 


ODE. 

I  AM  the  spirit  of  the  morning  sea ; 
I  am  the  awakening  and  the  glad  surprise; 
I  fill  the  skies 

With  laughter  and  with  light. 
Not  tears,  but  jollity 

At  birth  of  day  brim  the  strong  man-child's  eyes. 
Behold  the  white 

Wide  three-fold  beams  that  from  the  hidden  sun 
Rise  swift  and  far, — 
One  where  Orion  keeps 
His  armed  watch,  and  one 
That  to  the  midmost  starry  heaven  upleaps; 
The  third  blots  out  the  firm-fixed  Northern  Star. 

2 


io  ODE. 

I  am  the  wind  that  shakes  the  glittering  wave, 
Hurries  the  snowy  spume  along  the  shore 
And  dies  at  last  in  some  far-murmuring  cave. 
My  voice  thou  hearest  in  the  breaker's  roar — 
That  sound  which  never  failed  since  time  began 
And  first  around  the  world  the  shining  tumult  ran. 

n. 

I  light  the  sea  and  wake  the  sleeping  land. 

My  footsteps  on  the  hills  make  music,  and  my  hand 

Plays  like  a  harper's  on  the  wind-swept  pines. 

With  the  wind  and  the  day 
I  follow  round  the  world — away!  away! 
Wide  over  lake  and  plain  my  sunlight  shines, 
And  every  wave  and  every  blade  of  grass 
Doth  know  me  as  I  pass, 

And  me  the  western-sloping  mountains  know,  and  me 
The  far-off,  golden  sea. 

O  sea,  whereon  the  passing  sun  doth  lie !  — 
O  man,  who  watchest  by  that  golden  sea ! 


ODE.  1 1 

Weep  not, —  Oh  weep  not  thou,  but  lift  thine  eye 
And  see  me  glorious  in  the  sunset  sky  ! 

in. 

I  love  not  the  night 
Save  when  the  stars  are  bright, 
Or  when  the  moon 

Fills  the  white  air  with  silence  like  a  tune. 
Yea,  even  the  night  is  mine 
When  Northern  Lights  outshine, 
And  the  wild  heavens  throb  in  ecstasy  divine ;  — 
Yea,  mine  deep  midnight,  though  the  black  sky  lowers, 
When  the  sea  burns  white  and  breaks  on   the   shore 
in  starry  showers. 

IV. 

I  am  the  laughter  of  the  new-born  child 
On  whose  soft-breathing  sleep  an  angel  smiled. 
And  I  all  sweet  first  things  that  are  : 
First  songs  of  birds,  not  perfect  as  at  last — 
Broken  and  incomplete — 
But  sweet,  oh,  sweet ! 


12  ODE. 

And  I  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  a  star 

To  the  wrecked  ship,  that  tells  the  storm  is  past; 

The  first  keen  smells  and  stirrings  of  the  Spring ; 

First  snow-flakes,  and  first  May-flowers  after  snow; 

The  silver  glow 

Of  the  new  moon's  ethereal  ring ; 

The  song  the  morning  stars  together  made, 

And  the  first  kiss  of  lovers  under  the  first  June  shade. 

v. 

My  sword  is  quick,  my  arm  is  strong  to  smite 
In  the  dread  joy  and  fury  of  the  fight. 
I  am  with  those  who  win,  not  those  who  fly; 
With  those  who  live  I  am,  not  those  who  die. 

Who  die?     Nay — nay — that  word 
Where  I  am  is  unheard ; 

For  I  am  the  spirit  of  youth  that  can  not  change, 
Nor  cease,  nor  suffer  woe ; 
And  I  am  the  spirit  of  beauty  that  doth  range 
Through  natural  forms  and  motions,  and  each  show 
Of  outward  loveliness.     With  me  have  birth 


ODE. 


All  gentleness  and  joy  in  all  the  earth. 
Raphael  knew  me,  and  showed  the  world  my  face; 
Me  Homer  knew,  and  all  the  singing  race, — 
For  I  am  the  spirit  of  light,  and  life,  and  mirth. 


14  A    SONG   OF  EARLY  SUMMER. 


A   SONG    OF    EARLY   SUMMER. 

NOT  yet  the  orchard  lifted 
Its  cloudy  bloom  to  the  sky, 

Nor  through  the  dim  twilight  drifted 
The  whip-poor-will's  low  cry; 

The  gray  rock  had  not  made 
Of  the  vine  its  glistening  kirtle; 
The  purple  bells  of  the  myrtle 

Shook  not  in  the  locust  shade. 

Ere,  awake  in  the  darkling  night 
Is  heard  in  the  chimney-hollow 
The  boom  and  whir  of  the  swallow 

And  the  twitter  that  follows  the  flight; 

Before  the  foamy  whitening 
Of  the  water  below  the  mill ; 

Ere  yet  the  summer  lightning 

Shone  red  at  the  edge  of  the  hill  — 


A    SONG   OF  EARLY  SUMMER.  15 

In  the  time  of  sun  and  showers, 

Of  skies  half-black,  half-clear ; 
'Twixt  melting  snows  and  flowers; 

At  the  poise  of  the  flying  year; 

When  woods  flushed  pink  and  yellow 

In  dreams  of  leafy  June ; 
And  days  were  keen  or  mellow 

Like  tones  in  a  changing  tune  — 

Before  the  birds  had  broken 

Forth  in  their  song  divine, 
Oh!  then  the  word  was  spoken 

That  made  my  darling  mine. 


i6 


A    MIDSUMMER   SOXG. 


A    MIDSUMMER   SONG. 

OH,  father's  gone  to  market-town,  he  was  up  before 

the  day, 
And  Jamie 's  after  robins,   and   the   man    is    making 

hay, 
And   whistling  down   the    hollow   goes   the  boy   that 

minds  the  mill, 
While   mother  from   the  kitchen-door  is  calling  with 

a  will, 

"Polly!  — Polly!  — The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
Oh,  where's  Polly?" 

From  all  the  misty  morning  air  there  comes  a  sum 
mer  sound, — 
A    murmur   as   of  waters    from   skies,  and   trees  and 

ground. 
The  birds   they  sing  upon  the  wing,  the  pigeons  bill 

and  coo, 

And  over  hill  and  hollow  rings  again  the  loud  halloo : 
"Polly  !  — Polly!  — The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
Oh,  where's  Polly?" 


A   MIDSUMMER  SONG.  17 

Above  the  trees  the  honey-bees  swarm  by  with  buzz 

and  boom, 
And   in   the  field   and   garden   a   thousand   blossoms 

bloom. 

Within  the  farmer's  meadow  a  brown-eyed  daisy  blows, 
And    down    at    the    edge    of   the   hollow   a  red  and 
thorny  rose. 

But  Polly!  —  Polly!  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
Oh,  where  's  Polly  ? 

How  strange  at  such  a  time  of  day  the  mill  should 

stop  its  clatter! 
The  farmer's  wife  is  listening  now  and  wonders  what 's 

the  matter. 
Oh,  wild   the   birds  are  singing  in  the  wood  and  on 

the  hill, 
While    whistling    up    the    hollow    goes    the   boy  that 

minds  the  mill. 

But  Polly!  —  Polly! — The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
Oh,  where's  Polly? 


1 8  "ON  THE    WILD  ROSE    TREE. 


ON   THE   WILD    ROSE   TREE." 

ON  the  wild  rose  tree 
Many  buds  there  be, 
Yet  each  sunny  hour 
Hath  but  one  perfect  flower. 

Thou  who  wouldst  be  wise 
Open  wide  thine  eyes, — 
In  each  sunny  hour 
Pluck  the  one  perfect  flower ! 


A    SONG   OF  EARLY  AUTUMN.  19 

A   SONG    OF    EARLY   AUTUMN. 

WHEN  late  in  summer  the  streams  run  yellow, 
Burst  the  bridges  and  spread  into  bays; 

When  berries  are  black  and  peaches  are  mellow, 
And  hills  are  hidden  by  rainy  haze ; 

When  the  golden -rod  is  golden  still, 

But  the  heart  of  the  sun-flower  is  darker  and  sadder ; 
When  the  corn  is  in  stacks  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 

And  slides  o'er  the  path  the  striped  adder. 

When  butterflies  flutter  from  clover  to  thicket, 
Or  wave  their  wings  on  the  drooping  leaf; 

When   the   breeze   comes  shrill  with  the  call  of  the 

cricket — 
Grasshoppers'  rasp,  and  rustle  of  sheaf. 

When  high  in  the  field  the  fern-leaves  wrinkle, 
And  brown   is   the  grass  where   the   mowers  have 
mown ; 

When  low  in  the  meadow  the  cow-bells  tinkle, 
And  small  brooks  crinkle  o'er  stock  and  stone. 


20 


A    SONG   OF  EARLY  AUTUMN. 


When  heavy  and  hollow  the  robin's  whistle, 
And  shadows  are  deep  in  the  heat  of  noon ; 

When  the  air  is  white  with  the  down  o'  the  thistle, 
And  the  sky  is  red  with  the  harvest  moon ; 

O  then  be  chary,  young  Robert  and  Mary, 
No  time  let  slip,  not  a  moment  wait ! 

If  the  fiddle  would  play  it  must  stop  its  tuning, 
And   they   who   would   wed   must  be  done  with 

their  mooning. 

Let  the  churn  rattle,  see  well  to  the  cattle, 
And  pile  the  wood  by  the  barn-yard  gate ! 


THE  POET'S  PROTEST.  21 


THE    POET'S   PROTEST. 

O  MAN  with  your  rule  and  measure, 

Your  tests  and  analyses ! 
You  may  take  your  empty  pleasure, 

May  kill  the  pine,  if  you  please; 
Yon  may  count  the  rings  and  the  seasons, 

May  hold  the  sap  to  the  sun, 
You  may  guess  at  the  ways  and  the  reasons 

Till  your  little  day  is  done. 

But  for  me  the  golden  crest 

That  shakes  in  the  wind  and  launches 
Its  spear  toward  the  reddening  West ! 

For  me  the  bough  and  the  breeze, 
The  sap  unseen,  and  the  glint 

Of  light  on  the  dew- wet  branches, — 
The  hiding  shadows,  the  hint 

Of  the  soul  of  mysteries. 


WANTED,  A    THEME. 

You  may  sound  the  sources  of  life, 

And  prate  of  its  aim  and  scope; 
You  may  search  with  your  chilly  knife 

Through  the  broken  heart  of  hope. 
But  for  me  the  love-sweet  breath, 

And  the  warm,  white  bosom  heaving, 
And  never  a  thought  of  death, 

And  only  the  bliss  of  living. 


"  GIVE  me  a  theme,"  the  little  poet  cried, 

"And  I  will  do  my  part." 
"  'T  is  not  a  theme  you  need,"  the  world  replied ; 

"  You  need  a  heart." 


'A    WORD  SAID  IN   THE  DARK."  23 


«  A   WORD   SAID    IN   THE   DARK." 

A  WORD  said  in  the  dark 
And  hands  pressed,  for  a  token ; 

"  Now,  little  maiden,  mark 
The  word  that  you  have  spoken; 
Be  not  your  promise  broken ! " 

His  lips  upon  her  cheek 
Felt  tears  among  their  kisses; 

"  O  pardon  I  bespeak 
If  for  my  doubting  this  is ! 
Now  all  my  doubting  ceases." 


24  THE  SONNET. 


THE   SONNET. 

(IN   ANSWER  TO  A   QUESTION.) 

WHAT  is  a  sonnet  ?     'T  is  the  pearly  shell 

That  murmurs  of  the  far-off  murmuring  sea ; 

A  precious  jewel  carved  most  curiously ; 

It  is  a  little  picture  painted  well. 
What  is  a  sonnet  ?     T  is  the  tear  that  fell 

From  a  great  poet's  hidden  ecstasy  ; 

A  two-edged  sword,  a  star,  a  song— ah  me! 

Sometimes  a  heavy-tolling  funeral  bell. 
This  was  the  flame  that  shook  with  Dante's  breath; 

The  solemn  organ  whereon  Milton  played, 

And  the  clear  glass  where  Shakespeare's  shadow  falls : 
A  sea  this  is — beware  who  ventureth! 

For  like  a  fjord  the  narrow  floor  is  laid 

Deep  as  mid-ocean  to  the  sheer  mountain  walls. 


LONGFELLOW'S  "BOOK  OF  SONNETS."        25 


LONGFELLOW'S   "BOOK  OF   SONNETS." 

LAST  Sunday  evening  as  I  wandered  down 
The  central  highway  of  this  swarming  place, 
I  felt  a  pleasant  stillness  —  not  a  trace 
Of  Saturday's  wild  turmoil  in  the  town  : 

Then  as  a  gentle  breeze  just  stirs  a  gown, 
Yet  almost  motionless,  or  as  the  face 
Of  silence  smiles,  I  heard  the  chimes  of  "  Grace " 
Sound    murmuring  through   the    autumn    evening's 
brown. 

To-day,  again,  I  passed  along  Broadway  . 
In  the  fierce  tumult  and  mid-noise  of  noon, 
While  under  my  feet  the  solid  pavement  shook; 

When  lo  !  it  seemed  that  bells  began  to  play 
Upon  a  Sabbath  eve  a  silver  tune,— 
For  as  I  walked  I  read  the  poet's  book. 


26  ESSIPOFF. 


ESSIPOFF. 
i. 

WHAT  is  her  playing  like  ? 

I  ask — while  dreaming  here  under  her  music's  power. 
T  is  like  the  leaves  of  the  dark  passion-flower 
\Vhich  grows  on  a  strong  vine  whose  roots,  oh  deep 

they  sink, 
Deep  in  the  ground,  that  flower  's  pure  life  to  drink. 

II. 

What  is  her  playing  like  ? 

'T  is  like  a  bird 

Who,  singing  in  a  wild  wood,  never  knows 

That  its  lone  melody  is  heard 

By  wandering  mortal,  who  forgets  his  heavy  woes. 


TO  MODJESKA.  27 


TO    MODJESKA. 

THERE  are  four  sisters  known  to  mortals  well, 
Whose  names  are  Joy  and  Sorrow,  Death  and  Love: 
This  last  it  was  who  did  my  footsteps  move 
To  where  the  other  deep-eyed  sisters  dwell. 

To-night,  or  ere  yon  painted  curtain  fell, 

These,  one  by  one,  before  my  eyes  did  rove 
Through  the  brave  mimic  world  that  Shakspere  wove. 
Lady  !  thy  art,  thy  passion  were  the  spell 

That  held  me,  and  still  holds ;  for  thou  dost  show, 
With  those  most  high   each  in  his  sovereign  art, — 
Shakspere  supreme,  Beethoven  and  Angelo, — 

Great  art  and  passion  are  one.     Thine  too  the  part 
To  prove,  that  still  for  him  the  laurels  grow 
Who  reaches  through  the  mind  to  pluck  the  heart. 


28  THE  DRAMA. 


THE    DRAMA. 

(FROM     THE     POLISH.) 

I  SAT  in  the  crowded  theater.  The  first  notes  of  the 
orchestra  wandered  in  the  air;  then  the  full  harmony 
burst  forth  ;  then  ceased. 

The  conductor,  secretly  pleased  with  the  loud 
applause,  waited  a  moment,  then  played  again ;  but  as 
he  struck  upon  his  desk  for  the  third  time,  the  bell 
sounded,  the  just-beginning  tones  of  the  wind-instru 
ments  and  the  violins  hushed  suddenly,  and  the  curtain 
was  rolled  to  the  ceiling. 

Then  appeared  to  me  a  wonderful  vision,  which  still 
clings  to  my  mind,  and  shall  not  soon  be  forgotten  by 
me. 

For  know  that  I  am  one  who  loves  all  things  beauti 
ful.  Did  you  find  the  figure  of  a  man  lying  solitary 
upon  the  wind-fashioned  hills  of  sand,  watching  the 
large  sun  rise  from  the  ocean  ?  That  was  I. 


THE  DRAMA.  29 

It  was  I  who,  lonely,  walked  at  evening  through  the 
woods  of  autumn,  beholding  the  sun's  level  light  strike 
through  the  unfallen  red  and  yellow  leaves ; 

Whose  heart  trembled  when  he  saw  the  fire  that 
rapidly  consumed  the  dead  leaves  lying  upon  the  hill 
side,  and  spread  a  robe  of  black  that  throbbed  with 
crimson  jewels  under  the  wind  of  the  rushing  flame. 

Know,  also,  that  the  august  forms  wrought  in  marble 
by  the  ancient  sculptors  have  power  upon  me ;  also  the 
imaginative  works  of  the  incomparable  painters;  and 
that  the  voices  of  the  early  poets  are  modern  and 
familiar  to  me. 

What  vision  was  it,  then,  that  I  beheld ;  what  art  was 
it  that  made  my  heart  tremble  and  filled  me  with  joy 
that  was  like  pain  ? 

Was  it  the  art  of  the  poet ;  was  it  of  a  truth  poetry 
made  visible  in  human  attitudes  and  motions  and  many 
changing  tones  ? 

Was  it  the  art  of  the  painter — which  Raphael  knew 
so  well  when  he  created  those  most  gracious  shapes 
that  yet  live  on  the  walls  of  the  Vatican  ? 

Or  was  it  the  severe  and  marvelous  art  of  the  sculp- 


3°  THE  DRAMA. 

tor,    in    which    antique    Phidias    excelled,    and    which 
Michael  Angelo  indued  with  new  and  mighty  power  ? 

Or,  haply,  it  was  that  enchanting  myth,  made  real 
before  our  eyes, —  of  the  insensate  marble  warmed  to 
life  beneath  the  passionate  gaze  of  the  sculptor : 

No,  no;  it  was  not  this  miracle,  of  which  the  bards 
have  so  often  sung;  nor  was  it  the  art  of  the  poet,  nor 
of  the  painter,  nor  of  the  musician  (though  often  I 
thought  of  music),  nor  of  the  sculptor.  It  was  none  of 
these  that  moved  my  heart,  and  the  hearts  of  all  who 
beheld,— 

It  was  the  ancient  and  noble  art  of  the  drama,— the 
oldest  of  all  the  arts,  because  the  most  natural,  that  one 
which  is  indeed  informed  of  all  the  others, —  and  she 
who  was  the  mistress  of  it  was  none  other  than  the 
divine  Modjeska. 


DECORA  TION  DAY.  31 


DECORATION    DAY. 

i. 

SHE  saw  the  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sun, 

The  flags  that  proudly  waved,  the  bands,  the  bugles 

calling ; 

She  saw  the  tattered  banners  falling 
About  the  broken  staffs,  as  one  by  one 
The  remnant  of  the  mighty  army  passed ; 
And  at  the  last 
Flowers  for  the  graves  of  those  whose  fight  was  done. 


She  heard  the  tramping  of  ten  thousand  feet 

As  the  long  line  swept  round  the  crowded  square ; 

She  heard  the  incessant  hum     • 

That  filled  the  warm  and  blossom-scented  air,— 

The  shrilling  fife,  the  roll  and  throb  of  drum, 


32  DECORA  TION  DA  Y. 

The  happy  laugh,  the  cheer. —  Oh  glorious  and  meet 
To  honor  thus  the  dead, 
Who  chose  the  better  part 
And  for  their  country  bled  ! 

—  The  dead!    Great  God!    she  stood  there  in  the  street, 
Living,  yet  dead  in  soul  and  mind  and  heart  — 
While  far  away 

His    grave    was    decked    with    flowers    by    strangers' 
hands  to-day. 

NEW- YORK,   May  30,  1877. 


THE  EVENING  STAR."  33 


"THE    EVENING    STAR." 

THE  evening  star  trembles  and  hides  from  him 
Who  fain  would  hold  it  with  imperious  stare; 
Yet,  to  the  averted  eye,  lo !  unaware 
It  shines  serene,  no  longer  shy  and  dim. 

Oh,  slow  and  sweet,  its  chalice  to  the  brim 

Fills  the  leaf-shadowed  grape  with  rich  and  rare 
Cool  sunshine,  caught  from  the  white  circling  air ! 
Home  from  his  journey  to  the  round  world's  rim  — 

Through  lonely  lands,  through  cloudy  seas  and  vext- 
At  last  the  Holy  Grail  met  Launfal's  sight. 
So  when  my  friend  lost  him  who  was  her  next 

Of  soul,— life  of  her  life, —  all  day  the  fight 

Raged  with  a  dumb  and  pitiless  God.     Perplexed 
She  slept.     Heaven  sent  its  comfort  in  the  night. 


34  MORNING  AND  NIGHT. 


MORNING   AND    NIGHT. 

THE  mountain  that  the  morn  doth  kiss 
Glad  greets  its  shining  neighbor  : 

Lord  !  heed  the  homage  of  our  bliss, — 
The  incense  of  our  labor. 

Now  the  long  shadows  eastward  creep, 

The  golden  sun  is  setting : 
Take,   Lord  !  the  worship  of  our  sleep, — 

The  praise  of  our  forgetting. 


A    WOMAN'S   THOUGHT.  35 


A   WOMAN'S   THOUGHT. 

I  AM  a  woman  —  therefore  I  may  not 

Call  to  him,  cry  to  him, 

Fly  to  him, 

Bid  him  delay  not ! 

And  when  he  comes  to  me,  I  must  sit  quiet 

Still  as  a  stone, — 

All  silent  and  cold. 

If  my  heart  riot  — 

Crush  and  defy  it ! 

Should  I  grow  bold  — 

Say  one  dear  thing  to  him, 

All  my  life  fling  to  him, 

Cling  to  him  — 

What  to  atone 

Is  enough  for  my  sinning ! 


36  A    iro.U.-LV'S    THOUGHl'. 


This  were  the  cost  to  me, 
This  were  my   winning  — 
That  he  were  lost  to  me. 

Not  as  a  lover 

At  last  if  he  part  from  me, 

Tearing  my  heart  from  me,  — 

Hurt  beyond  cure,  — 

Calm  and  demure 

Then  must  I  hold  me,  — 

In  myself  fold  me,  — 

Lest  he  discover  ; 

Showing  no  sign  to  him 

By  look  of  mine  to  him 

"\Yhat  he  has  been  to  me,  — 

How  my  heart  yearns  to  him, 

Follows  him,  turns  to  him, 

Prays  him  to  love  me. 

Pity  me,  lean  to  me, 
Thou  God  above  me  ! 


'REFORM."  37 


"REFORM." 
i. 

OH,    how    shall    I    help    to    right    the    world    that    is 

going  wrong ! 
And   what   can    I    do  to  hurry  the  promised  time  of 

peace ! 
The   day  of  work   is   short  and  the  night  of  sleep  is 

long; 
And   whether   to   pray  or  preach,  or  whether  to  sing 

a  song, 
To  plow  in  my  neighbor's  field,  or  to  seek  the  golden 

fleece, 
Or   to    sit   with   my   hands  in  my  lap,  and  wish  that 

sin  would  cease  ! 

II. 
I  think,  sometimes,  it  were  best  just  to  let  the  Lord 

alone ; 
I    am   sure   some   people   forget    He   was  here  before 

they  came ; 


38  "REFORM." 

Though  they  say  it  is  all    for  His  glory,  't  is  a  good 

deal  more  for  their  own, 
That  they  peddle  their  petty  schemes,  and  blate  and 

babble  and  groan. 
I    sometimes   think  it  were  best,  and   I  were  little  to 

blame, 
Should    I    sit   with   my  hands  in  my  lap,  in  my  face 

a  crimson  shame. 


FOR  AN  ALBUM,  39 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

(TO  BE  READ  ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  AFTER.) 

A  CENTURY'S  summer  breezes  shook 
The  maple  shadows  on  the  grass 

Since  she  who  owned  this  ancient  book 
From  the  green  world  to  heaven  did  pass. 

Beside  a  northern  lake  she  grew, 
A  wild-flower  on  its  craggy  walls ; 

Her  eyes  were  mingled  gray  and  blue, 
Like  waves  where  summer  sunlight  falls. 

Cheerful  her  hours  from  morn  to  close 
Of  day,  no  work  nor  prayer  forgot : 

Yet  who  of  woman  born  but  knows 
The  sorrows  of  our  mortal  lot ! 

And  she  too  suffered,  though  the  wound 
Was  hidden  from  the  general  gaze, 


4°  FOR   AN  ALBUM. 

And  most  from  those  who  thus  had  found 
An  added  burden  to  their  days. 

She  had  no  special  grace,  nor  art; 

Her  riches  not  in  banks  were  kept: 
Her  treasure  was  a  gentle  heart, 

Her  skill  to  comfort  those  who  wept. 

Not  without  foes  her  days  were  passed, 
For  quick  her  burning  scorn  was  fanned. 

Her  friends  were  many — least  and  last, 
A  poet  from  a  distant  land. 


COST.  41 


COST. 

BECAUSE  Heaven's  cost  is  Hell,  and  perfect  joy 
Hurts  as  hurts  sorrow;  and  because  we  win 
No  boon  of  grace  without  the  cost  of  sin, 
Or  suffering  born  of  sin ;  because  the  alloy 

Of  blood  but  makes  the  bliss  of  victory  brighter; 
Because  true  worth  hath  its  sure  proof  herein  — 
That  it  should  be  reproached,  and  called  akin 
To  evil  things — black  making  white  the  whiter : 

Because  no  cost  seems  great  near  this  —  that  He 
Should  pay  the  ransom  wherewith  we  were  priced; 
And  none  could  name  a  mightier  infamy 

Than  that  a  God  was  spit  upon  —  enticed 

By  those  he  came  to  save,  to  the  damned  tree — 
Therefore  I  know  that  Christ  indeed  is  Christ. 


42  THE  HOMESTEAD. 


THE    HOMESTEAD. 


HERE  stays  the  house,  here  stay  the  self-same  places, 
Here  the  white  lilacs  and  the  buttonwoods ; 
Here  are  the  pine-groves,  there  the  river-floods, 
And  there  the  threading  brook  that  interlaces 
Green  meadow-bank  with  meadow-bank  the  same. 
The  melancholy  nightly  chorus  came 
Long,  long  ago  from  the  same  pool,  and  yonder 
Stark  poplars  lift  in  the  same  twilight  air 
Their  ancient  shadows  :  nearer  still,  and  fonder, 
The  black-heart  cherry-tree's  gaunt  branches  bare 
Rasp  on  the  same  old  window  where  I  ponder. 


THE  HOMESTEAD.  43 


And  we,  the  only  living,  only  pass; 

We  come  and  go,  whither  and  whence  we  know  not : 

From  birth  to  bound  the  same  house  keeps,  alas ! 

New  lives  as  gently  as  the  old;  there  show  not 

Among  the  haunts  that  each  had  thought  his  own 

The  changes  parting  brings  to  human  faces. 

The  black-heart  there,  that  heard  my  earliest  moan, 

And  yet  shall  hear  my  last,  like  all  these  places 

I  love  so  well,  unloving  lives  from  child 

To  child;  from  morning  joy  to  evening  sorrow — 

Untouched  by  joy,  by  anguish  undenled : 

All  one  the  generations  gone,  and  new ; 

All  one  dark  yesterday  and  bright  to-morrow; 

To  the  old  trees  insensate  sympathy 

All  one  the  morning  and  the  evening  dew — 

My  long-forgotten  ancestor  and  I. 


44          THE    WHITE  AND    THE  RED  ROSE. 


THE    WHITE   AND   THE   RED    ROSE. 


IN  Heaven's  happy  bowers 
There  blossom  two  flowers, 
One  with  fiery  glow 
And  one  as  white  as  snow; 
While  lo!  before  them  stands, 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands, 
A  spirit  who  must  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 


Oh,  tell  me  of  these  flowers 

That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers, 

One  with  fiery  glow, 

And  one  as  white  as  snow  ! 

And  tell  me  who  is  this 

In  Heaven's  holy  bliss 

Who  trembles  and  cries 

Like  a  mortal  that  dies ! 


THE    WHITE  AND    THE  RED  ROSE.  45 

III. 

These  blossoms  two 
Wet  with  heavenly  dew  — 
The  Gentle  Heart  is  one, 
And  one  is  Beauty's  own; 
And 'the  spirit  here  that  stands 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands  — 
Before  to-morrow's  morn 
WTill  be  a  child  new-born, 
Will  be  a  mortal  maiden 
With  earthly  sorrows  laden; 
But  of  these  shining  flowers 
That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers. 
To-day  she  still  may  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 

IV. 

Will  she  pluck  the  crimson  flower 
And  win  Beauty's  dower  ? 
Will  she  choose  the  better  part 


THE    WHITE  AND    THE  RED  ROSE. 

And  gain  the  Gentle  Heart  ? 
Awhile  she  weeping  waits 
Within  those  pearly  gates  — 
Alas!  the  mortal  maiden 
With  earthly  sorrow  laden  : 
Her  tears  afresh  they  start, 
She  has  chosen  the  Geritle  Heart. 

v. 

And  now  the  spirit  goes, 

In  her  breast  the  snow-white  rose. 

When  hark  !  a  voice  that  calls 

Within  the  garden  walls : 

"Thou  didst  choose  the  better  part, 

Thou  hast  won  the  Gentle  Heart  — 

Lo,  now  to  thee  is  given 

The  red  rose  of  Heaven." 


KEATS.  47 


KEATS. 

TOUCH  not  with  dark  regret  his  perfect  fame, 
Sighing,  "  Had  he  but  lived  he  had  done  so ; " 
Or,  "  Were  his  heart  not  eaten  out  with  woe 
John  Keats  had  won  a  prouder,  mightier  name ! " 

Take  him  for  what  he  was  and  did  —  nor  blame 
Blind  fate  for  all  he  suffered.     Thou  shouldst  know 
Souls  such  as  his  escape  no  mortal  blow  — 
No  agony  of  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  shame ! 

"Whose  name  was  writ  in  water!"  What  large  laughter 
Among  the  immortals  when  that  word  was  brought! 
Then  when  his  fiery  spirit  rose  flaming  after 

High  toward  the  topmost  heaven  of  heavens  up-caught! 
"  All  hail !  our  younger  brother ! "  Shakespeare  said, 
And  Dante  nodded  his  imperial  head. 


48  "CALL   ME  NOT  DEAD: 


"CALL    ME    NOT   DEAD." 

CALL  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  gone 
Into  the  company  of  the  ever  living 
High  and  most  glorious  poets !    Let  thanksgiving 
Rather  be  made.     Say  —  "He  at  last  hath  won 

Release  and  rest,  converse  supreme  and  wise, 
Music  and  song  and  light  of  immortal  faces : 
To-day,  perhaps,  wandering  in  starry  places, 
He  hath   met   Keats,  and  known  him  by  his  eyes. 

To-morrow  (who  can  say)   Shakespeare  may  pass, — 
And  our  lost  friend  just  catch  one  syllable 
Of  that  three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well, — 

Or  Milton, —  or  Dante,  looking  on  the  grass 
Thinking  of  Beatrice,  and  listening  still 
To  chanted  hymns  that  sound  from  the  heavenly  hill." 


A    THOUGHT.  49 


A   THOUGHT. 

ONCE,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land 

That  lay  in  silence  underneath  the  sun : 

A  land  of  broad,  green  meadows,  through  which  poured 

Two  rivers,  slowly  widening  to  the  sea, — 

Thus,  as  I  looked,  I  know  not  how  or  whence, 

Was  borne  into  my  unexpectant  soul 

That  thought,  late  learned  by  anxious-witted  man, 

The  infinite  patience  of  the  Eternal  Mind. 


5°  CRADLE   S0\(;. 


CRADLE    SONG. 

I.\  the  embers  shining  bright 
A   garden  grows  for  thy  delight, 
With  roses  yellow,  red,  and  white. 

But,  ()  my  child,  beware,  beware! 
Touch  not  the  roses  growing  there, 
J;or  every  rose  a  thorn  doth  bear. 


BEYOND    THE  BRANCHES   OF   THE  PINE:"  51 


BEYOND  THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  PINE. 

BEYOND  the  branches  of  the  pine 
The  golden  sun  no  more  doth  shine, 

But  still  the  solemn  after-glow 
Floods  the  deep  heavens  with  light  divine. 

The  night- wind  stirs  the  corn-field  near  — 
The  gray  moon  turns  to  silver  clear, 

And  one  by  one  the  glimmering  stars 
In  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  appear. 

Now  do  the  mighty  hosts  of  light 
Across  the  darkness  take  their  flight, — 

They  rise  above  the  eastern  hill 
And  silent  journey  through  the  night. 

And  there  beneath  the  starry  zone 
In  the  deep,  narrow  grave,  alone, 

Rests  all  that  mortal  was  of  her, 
The  purest  spirit  I  have  known. 


52  LOVE  AND  DEATH. 


LOVE   AND    DEATH. 

i. 

Now   who  can   take  from  us  what  we  have  known 

We  that  have  looked  into  each  others  eyes  ? 
Though  sudden  night  should  blacken  all  the  skies, 
The  day  is  ours,  and   what  the  day  has  shown. 
What  we  have  seen   and  been,  hath  not  this  grown 
Part  of  our  very  selves  ?  We,  made  love-wise, 
What  power  shall  slay  our  living  memories, 
And  who  shall  take  from  us  what  is  our  own  ? 
So,  when  a  shade  of  the  last  parting  fell, 

This  thought  gave  peace,  as  he  deep  comfort  hath 
Who,  thirsting,  drinks  cool  waters  from  a  well. 
But  soon   I   felt  more  near  the  fatal  breath 
Of  the  body  bodiless,  the  invisible 
Maker  of  visible  woe,— I   looked  on  Death. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  53 


II. 

We  know  not  where  they  tarry  who  have  died ; 
The  gate  wherein  they  entered  is  made  fast : 
No  living  mortal  hath  seen  one  who  passed 
Hither,  from  out  that  darkness  deep  and  wide. 

We  lean  on  Faith ;  and  some  less  wise  have  cried, 
"  Behold  the  butterfly,  the  seed  that 's  cast ! " 
Vain  hopes  that  fall  like  flowers  before  the  blast ! 
What  man  can  look  on  Death  unterrified  ? 

None,  none,  save  those  who  love!     They  are  a  part 
Of  all  that  lives  beneath  the  summer  sky ; 
With  the  world's  living  soul  their  souls  are  one  : 

Nor  shall  they  in   vast   nature  be  undone 

And  lost  in  the  general  life.     Each  separate  heart 
Shall  live,  and  find  its  own,  and  never  die. 


54         "BACK  FROM   THE  DARKXESS  TO   Till-: 
LIGHT  AGAIN." 


BACK    FROM    THE     DARKNESS    TO     THE 
LIGHT    AGAIN." 

"BACK  from  the  darkness  to  the  light   again!"  — 
Not  from  the  darkness,  Love,  for  hadst  thou  lain 
Within  the  shadowy  portal  of  the  tomb, 
Thy  light  had  warmed  the  darkness  into  bloom. 


WHEN  LOVE  DAWNED:'  55 


"WHEN    LOVE    DAWNED." 

WHEN  love  dawned  on  that  world  which  is  my  mind, 
Then  did  the  outer  world  wherein  I  went 
Suffer  a  sudden  strange  transfigurement — 
It  was  as  if  new  sight  were  given  the  blind. 

Then  where  the  shore  to  the  wide  sea  inclined 
1  watched  with  new  eyes  the  new  sun's  ascent : 
My  heart  was  stirred  within  me  as  I  leant 
And  listened  to  a  voice  in  every  wind. 

O  purple  sea  !    O  joy  beyond  control ! 

O  land  of  love  and  youth  !    O  happy  throng  ! 
Were  ye  then  real,  or  did  ye  only  seem  ? 

Dear  is  that  morning  twilight  of  the  soul, — 
The  mystery,  and  the  waking  voice  of  song,— 
For  now  I  know  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 


5 6  TUE   POET'S  FAME. 


THE    POET'S    FAMK. 

MANY  the  songs  of  power  the  poet  wrought 
To  shake  the  hearts  of  men.     Yea,  he  had  caught 
The  inarticulate  and  murmuring  sound 
That  comes  at   midnight  from  the  darkened  ground 
When  the  earth  sleeps  ;   for  this  he  framed  a  word 
Of  human  speech,  and  hearts  were  strangely  stirred 
That  listened.      And  for  him  the  evening  dew 
Fell  with  a  sound   of  music,  and  the  blue 
Of  the  deep,  starry  sky  he  had  the  art 
To  put  in  language  that  did  seem  a  part 
Of  the  great  scope  and  progeny  of  nature. 
In  woods,  or  waves,  or  winds,  there  was  no  creature 
Mysterious  to  him.      He  was  too  wise 
Either  to  fear,  or  follow,  or  despise 
Whom   men  call  Science, — for  he  knew  full  well 
What  she  had  told,  or  still  might  live  to  tell, 
Was  known  to  him  before  her  very  birth  : 


THE  POET'S  FAME.  57 

Yea,  that  there  was  no  secret  of  the  earth, 
Nor  of  the  waters  under,  nor  the  skies, 
That  had  been  hidden  from  the  poet's  eyes; 
By  him  there  was  no  ocean  unexplored, 
Nor  any  savage  coast  that  had  not  roared 
Its  music  in  his  ears. 

He  loved  the  town, — 

Not  less  he  loved  the  ever-deepening  brown 
Of  summer  twilights  on  the  enchanted  hills; 
Where  he  might  listen  to  the  starts  and  thrills 
Of  birds  that  sang  and  rustled  in  the  trees, 
Or  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  wandering  breeze 
And  the  birds'  shadows  as  they  fluttered  by 
Or  slowly  wheeled  across  the  unclouded  sky. 

All  these  were  written  on  the  poet's  soul, — 
But  he  knew,  too,  the  utmost  distant  goal 
Of  the  human  mind.     His  fiery  thought  did  run 
To  Time's  beginnings,  ere  yon  central  sun 
Had  warmed  to  life  the  swarming  broods  of  men. 
In  waking  dreams,  his  many-visioned  ken 
Clutched  the  large,  final  destiny  of  things. 

8 


58  THE   POET'S  FAME. 

He  heard  the  starry  music,  and  the  wings* 
Of  beings  unfelt  by  others  thrilled  the  air 
About  him.     Yet  the  loud  and  angry  blare 
Of  tempests  found  an  echo  in  his  verse, 
And  it  was  here  that  lovers  did  rehearse 
The  ditties  they  would  sing  when,  not  too  soon, 
Came  the  warm  night, — shadows,  and  stars,  and  moon. 
Who  heard  his  songs  were  filled  with  noble  rage, 
And  wars  took  fire  from  his  prophetic  page  : 
Most  righteous  wars,  wherein,  'midst  blood  and  tears, 
The  world  rushed  onward  through  a  thousand  years. 
Nathless,  he  made  the  gentle  sounds  of  peace 
Heroic, —  bade  the  nation's  anger  cease! 
Bitter  his  songs  of  grief  for  those  who  fell  — 
And  for  all  this  the  people  loved  him  well. 

They  loved  him  well,  and  therefore,  on  a  day, 
They  said,  with  one  accord :  "  Behold  how  gray 
Our  poet's  head  hath  grown !     Ere  't  is  too  late 
Come,  let  us  crown  him  in  our  Hall  of  State  : 
Let  the  bells  ring,  give  to  the  winds  his  praise, 
And  urge  his  fame  to  other  lands  and  days  ! " 


THE  POET'S  FAME.  59 

So  was  it  done,  and  deep  his  joy  therein. 
But  passing  home  at  night,  from  out  the  din 
Of  the  loud  Hall,  the  poet,  unaware, 
Moved  through  a  lonely  and  dim-lighted  square  — 
There  was  the  smell  of  lilacs  in  the  air 
And  then  the  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 
Startled  by  his  slow  tread.     What  memory  stirred 
Within  his  brain  he  told  not.     Yet  this  night  - 
Still  lingering  when  the  eastern  heavens  were  bright — 
He  wove  a  song  of  such  immortal  art 
That  there  is  not  in  all  the  world  one  heart  — 
One  human  heart  unmoved  by  it.     Long!  long! 
The  laurel-crown  has  failed,  but  not  that  song 
Born  of  the  night  and  sorrow ;  and  where  he  lies 
At  rest  beneath  the  ever-shifting  skies, 
Age  after  age,  from  far-off  lands  they  come, 
Not  without  flowers,  to  seek  the  poet's  tomb. 


THE    POET    AND    HIS    MASTER. 


THE    POET   AND    HIS   MASTER. 

ONE  day  the  poet's  harp  lay  on  the  ground, 
Though  from  it  rose  a  strange  and  trembling 

sound 

What  time  the  wind  swept  over  with  a  moan, 
Or,  now  and  then,  a  faint  and  tinkling  tone, 
When  a  dead  leaf  fell  shuddering  from  a  tree 
And  shook  the  silent  wires  all  tremulously; 
And  near  it,  solemn-eyed  and  woe-begone, 
The  poet  sat:  he  did  not  weep  or  groan. 

Then  one  drew  nigh  him  who  was  robed  in  white  : 
It  was  the  poet's  master  ;  he  had  given 
To  him  that  harp,  once  in  a  happy  night 


64  THE  POET  AXD  HIS  MASTER. 

When  every  silver  star  that  shone  in  heaven 

Made  music  ne'er  before  was  heard  by  mortal  wight. 

And  thus  the  master  spoke  : 

"  Why  is  thy  voice 

Silent,  O  poet  ?     Why  upon  the  grass 
Lies  thy  still  harp  ?     The  fitful  breezes  pass 
And  touch  the  wires,  but  the  skilled  player's  hand 
Moves  not  upon  them.     Poet, —  wake!    Rejoice, 
Sing  and  arouse  the  melancholy  land." 

"  Master,  forbear.     1  may  not  sing  to-day : 
My  nearest  friend,  the  brother  of  my  heart, 
This  day  is  stricken  with  sorrow,  he  must  part 
From  her  who  loves  him.     Can   I  sing,  and  play 
Upon  the  joyous  harp,  and  mock  his  woe?" 

"Alas,  and  hast  thou  then  so  soon  forgot 

The  bond  that  with  thy  gift  of  song  did  go  — 

Severe  as  fate,  fixed  and  unchangeable  ? 

Dost  thou  not  know  this  is  the  poet's  lot ! 

'Mid  sounds  of  war — in  halcyon  times  of  peace — 

To  strike  the  ringing  wire  and  not  to  cease : 


THE   POET  AND  HIS  MASTER.  65 

in  hours  of  general  happiness  to  swell 
The  common  joy ;  and  when  the  people  cry 
With  piteous  voice  loud  to  the  pitiless  sky, 
T  is  his  to  frame  the  universal  prayer, 
And   breathe    the   balm    of   song   upon   the  accursed 
air?" 

"But  'tis  not,  O  my  master,  that  I  borrow 
The  robe  of  grief  to  deck  my  brother's  sorrow, — 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  beyond  the  veil  of  youth; 
I  know  what  Life  is,  have  caught  sight  of  Truth; 
My  heart  is  dead  within  me;  a  thick  pall 
Darkens  the  mid-day  sun." 

"And  dost  thou  call 

This  sorrow?    Call  this  knowledge?    O  thou  blind 
And  ignorant!     Know,  then,  thou  yet  shalt  find, 
Ere  thy  full  days  are  numbered  'neath  the  sun, 
Thou,  in  thy  shallow  youth,  hadst  but  begun 
To  guess  what  knowledge  is,  what  grief  may  be, 
And  all  the  infinite  sum  of  human  misery ; 
Shalt  find  for  each  rich  drop  of  perfect  good 
Thou  payest,  at  last,  a  threefold  price  in  blood ; 
9 


66  THE  POET  AXD  II IS  MASTER. 

What  is  most  noble  in  thee — every  thought 
Highest  and  best  —  crushed,  spat    upon,  and  brought 
To  an  open  shame ;  thy  natural  ignorance 
Counted  thy  crime;  the  world  all  ruled  by  chance, 
Save  that  the  good  most  suffer;  but  above 
These  ills  another, —  cruel,   monstrous,  worse 
Than  all  before, —  thy  pure  and  passionate  love 
Shall  bring  the  old,  immitigable  curse."1 

"  And  thou  who  tell'st  me  this,  dost  bid  me  sing  ? " 

u  I  bid  thee  sing,  even  though  I  have  not  told 
All  the  deep  flood  of  anguish  shall  be  rolled 
Across  thy  breast.     Nor,  Poet,  shalt  thou  bring 
From  out  those  depths  thy  grief!      Tell   to  the  wind 
Thy  private  woes,  but  not  to  human  ear, 
Save  in  the  shape  of  comfort  for  thy  kind. 
But  never  hush  thy  song,  dare  not  to  cease 
While  life  is  thine.     Haply,  'mid  those  who  hear, 
Thy  music  to  one  soul  shall  murmur  peace, 
Though  for  thyself  it  hath  .no  power  to  cheer. 


THE  POET  AND   HIS  MASTER. 

"  Then  shall  thy  still  unbroken  spirit  grow 
Strong  in  its  suffering  and  more  tender-wise ; 
And  as  the  drenched  and  thunder-shaken  skies 
Pass  into  golden  sunset — thou  shalt  know 
An  end  of  calm,  when  evening  breezes  blow ; 
And  looking  on  thy  life  with  vision  fine 
Shalt  see  the  shadow  of  a  hand  divine." 


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The   T  oet 


d  W 
ard  his   mas' 


er 


M191940 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


